In Lieu: Chapter I
by takidaka
Summary: I'm here, they're queer, and both so dear. It's time for a Christmas fanfic featuring angsty boys and cute presents. This is part one of a currently undetermined number of parts. Please tell me what you think! (Seriously… This is my first published fanfic and I'd really, really love feedback.) I'll update it as often as I can.


I'm here, they're queer, and both so dear. It's time for a Christmas fanfic featuring angsty boys and cute presents.

This is part one of a currently undetermined number of parts. Please tell me what you think! (Seriously… This is my first published fanfic and I'd really, really love feedback.) I'll update it as often as I can.

(Part II)

 _ **Chapter 1:**_ **SIMON**

"Hey."

A pause.

"Wake up, love."

I roll my head to rest on my other shoulder, frowning at the familiar voice.

"Aliester Crowley, Snow." A hand touches my cheek. Lukewarm. "You're not going to be able to sleep tonight."

 _Baz_.

I peer through cracked eyelids to find him hanging over me, one arm propping him up on the head of the chair, the other smoothing my cheek. He frowns, though his eyes sparkle with amusement.

"Who needs sleep when you're around?" I yawn, half-smiling and leaning into his touch.

He lightly smacks my arm. "Sure."

"I'm serious. How do I know you're not going to try to Turn me?"

"Because I like them fresh, my dear. You're old and stale."

"Like your sense of humor."

He lowers himself down, grinning as he nears my neck. "Exactly. And your complexion is too nice to ruin with pallor."

"Easy, breezy, beautiful. Coversnow."

"Uh-huh." He kisses his favorite freckle–the one right beneath my ear–and stands up straight. "Anyway. What were you doing so late that you fell asleep?"

I stretch my arms out before me. One of my wings pops out from behind my back and nearly smacks him in the face.

"Shit, Snow–"

"Sorry." I smirk, folding it back into place. "Always forget about those. But I was finishing the last part of you and Penelope's Christmas present."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Not telling."

Baz sneers at me. "Says the boy who actually tells me about every shit he's ever taken– _and_ in full detail."

"Exactly." I laugh, stand, and lean over. "Because it's not shit. Now kiss me good morning."

Though he pretends to look disgusted, he bends towards me, shaking his head; before I can reach, though, he stops and pulls slightly away.

"Snow?"

"Hm?"

"What am I smelling on you?"

"My sultry juices. Duh."

"No."

"More like day-old cinnamon streusel that's been left uncovered on the counter, if I'm going to be honest–"

His eyes narrow into needles, gaze sharp and pointed. "Simon."

"Fine, Baz," I sigh. "It's, well… a cigarette. One of yours."

One of his eyebrows lifts, unimpressed. "My dear, I have long made the acquaintance of both heavy and light smokers, and I can tell you for a fact that a stench of that magnitude is not created by just one." He steps closer, pushing me back against my chair. "How many did you blow through?"

"A pack or two."

"Or two?"

"Or three."

"Simon–"

"Baz, you don't _get_ it," I interject, exasperated. "I don't smell like _it_ anymore. I don't smell like fire or stone or smoke or _any_ of those good things–"

"Simon, you smell like _life_. Like you've always meant to have and deserve. Like your mother and Bunce and I _want_ you to have. Smoking is not going to do anything but ruin that."

"No, _magic_ is life, and I don't have any." I run my hand over the back of my neck. "I don't want a life without it. And smoking is relaxing."

"You know, many other things are relaxing and not catastrophically self-destructive."

"Like what? Yoga? Do they even have yoga for half-dragon post-adolescent boys with a death wish?"

After a long moment of staring at me, Baz sighs, seemingly spent, and leans his hips back against the desk. I stare at his knees, slender and strong beneath his old flannel pajamas. _My_ old pajamas, really. He's always stealing my clothes.

But now I notice that he's gone quiet.

"A death wish, huh?" He eventually asks.

I glance up. His eyes have gone soft, sad.

"I…" I start, rubbing my neck. "I don't _know_ , Baz. It just _hurts_. All the time. Like a part of me is empty and hollow and isn't filled with anything but nothing."

Baz nods slowly. "I understand what you mean."

"Do you?"

And I meet his eyes and realize, once again, that I am talking to the boy who understands almost everything about being miserable.

Then I feel my chest go soft. I'm officially as sad as Baz. Probably even sadder. I could be an Adele album.

"Baz…"

"I know, Simon." He speaks gently, in hushed tones. Like the feeling is untranslatable. "But, Simon, though I know it's redundant of me to say this, you don't _need_ magic. And I know you love it, and it was as much a part of you as it is of me. But I'm _sorry_ , love." Baz bites his lip, one fang threatening to poke into his soft skin. "Still, you're not any lesser without it."

"Yeah." I snort. "Okay."

"No, it's true. Look at yourself." He gently takes my hands in his own, letting them hang down the way streamers bow from a ceiling. "You're _beautiful_. Even without the power and the explosions and the constant possibility of death."

I look up at him, annoyed, though at what I'm not exactly sure. "You're just saying that."

"I'm absolutely not. You know, just because Venus de Milo doesn't have arms doesn't mean she's not one of the most beautiful creations of all time."

"Yeah, well, she was made by Michelangelo or whoever that knew what he was doing."

"Alexandros de Antioch, first off, and I'm almost positive he wasn't planning on hacking off her limbs." His fingers clasp around mine. "And it's the same with you. You were made by a mother who loved you and a father… Yeah, well. He was out there. But he still meant the best."

I don't respond, letting my thumbs unconsciously graze the smooth skin on his wrists. His gaze trails from my face down to our intertwined hands, little strands of hair falling in his face, mussed and unkempt from the pillows. I don't think anyone else has ever seen Baz look like this.

Real, I mean. Human. Sometimes I think he makes himself look like a vampire just to keep appearances. To remind me that he's dead and lacks life and is still wonderful without it.

He's so right. He's _always_ right. It pisses me the hell off. It makes me so angry, I want to push him down on the couch, the nice cedar-scented one facing the window, the one we stole from his bedroom and have spent hours lying on while kissing, and let myself tear into his smugly-lovely face.

So I move forward and take his lips with my own, hands quickly moving up and around his body, beneath his shirt, skimming fingers under the elastic on his boxers. And he lets me–he drops, like always, swooning beneath me, letting me run my fingers through his long hair, pretending to fight back and giving up and holding my face like it's precious.

If I could do this–touch him, hold him, _have_ him all the minutes of the day, pressing back against my bones–I don't think I'd have to smoke.

But then I'd be used to the way his hands send shivers up my spine, like this, when he's running them across my bare skin, like this, fingernails trailing and skirting and tickling, like this, and the feeling I get when he's pressing himself against me. Fire. Strength. _Power_. Like we could stand together through anything, at moments like these, when I'm holding his waist and our hips are touching as our lips collide together.

I can't lose _this_.

I pull away after a minute. We stand, breathless, hovering, watching.

I murmur, "You're still full of shit."

"Oh, I know. And so are you."

I offer a sly smile and shake my head. "Asshole."

"You would know," he grins. Then he yawns and tilts forward, sleepily, resting his head on my shoulder.

"You smell fucking awful," he murmurs.

"I know."

"And you look tired."

"I'm always tired. How did you sleep?" I ask, looking over at his eyes. Piercing. Elegant. Full of intelligence and shining like the moon.

A faint smile crowns his pinked lips. "Okay. Would've been better with you there, though."

"Night terrors?"

"One or two."

"I see." I sigh and shake my head. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Just those fucking numpties again," Baz responds with a tinge of sarcasm. He still looks at me, a peculiar expression on his face. "And you?"

I shake my head. "I just try not to think about it."

"Mm." He brings my face into his cold hands and kisses my forehead. It feels like sunlight. "Anyway. Let's get on with our day, I guess. You need to take a bath."

"You can take one with me."

"I could."

"Make sure I smell decent in public."

"I'd rub the stink right off of you."

So I take his hand and start walking down the hall. Baz begins mumbling under his breath as we stroll along, socked feet padding across the floor–"Blimey, Snow, can you walk any louder? Like a fucking horse, I swear– _clop, clop, clop_. That's you. Wait, Simon, where is Bunce? Did she even come home last night? Is she going to walk in on accident?"

"Who cares?"

He considers. "Well… Yeah. Good point. But, you know, she might–"

We're at the end of the way when I spin around and face him, slamming his babbling mouth shut with my own. Baz is surprised at first and falters backwards, but quickly gains his footing and starts pressing back against me. He's got my shirt on the floor and tail wrapped around his wrist when I pull back.

"Wait, wait, wait. Baz."

He looks hungry, about to pounce. "You're not seriously about to ask me how double-dipping works _again_ , are you?"

"Not yet. But do you have any extra smokes? I'm out."

He sighs and hastily grabs one out of the carton in his pocket, offering it with tense fingers. "Snow, let me tell you something. You know why I started smoking?"

"Because you're a badass?" I say, taking it from him.

"Partly. And partly because I had a death wish. But mostly because they smelled like you, and they were the closest thing I had to having you or life or a reason for being for a long, long time."

"Oh."

"Yeah." His eyes pass over my face. "And let me say this: it's not going to be anything close to the real thing simply because it _isn't_ the real thing. You just have to learn to live with the gap."

"But you didn't have to."

Baz smiles benevolently, and it's one of those rare moments when I think he could stop wars and part waters. Deadly as he looks right now. "But I _did_."

I sigh. He steps forward and wraps his arms around my bare waist.

"It'll be okay, Simon."

"How do you know?"

"Vampire's intuition."

He plucks and tosses the unlit cigarette from my fingers. I smile weakly. He looks at me.

"I still have you, don't I?" Baz asks.

"For the time being."

He grimaces and shakes his head.

But he's right. I still have _this_. This, this, _this_.

I lean forward on my toes and kiss him, imagining the scent of honey. The color of peaches. The sound of chiming bells.

For a long moment Baz is motionless against me.

Then he grins and grabs my ass.


End file.
